


the bird and its prey

by CurlyAndQuote



Category: Natasha Pierre and the Great Comet of 1812 - Malloy
Genre: Angst, Canon Divergence, Gen, canon suicide attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-06
Updated: 2017-09-06
Packaged: 2018-12-24 11:25:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12011736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CurlyAndQuote/pseuds/CurlyAndQuote
Summary: Marya slid her finger back and forth over the trigger, imagining herself pulling it, never having to hear that cloying, smooth voice again. She shook her head slightly.“One more question. Do you feel any regret in what you’ve done? Do you realize that it was a despicable, awful act to commit? Are you disgusted with yourself?”





	the bird and its prey

**Author's Note:**

> We see a lot of "what if Pierre had smashed in Anatole's head?", but shockingly little "what if Marya had caught Anatole before he escaped?" Half character study, half cathartic angst.

There was a ringing in Marya Dmitriyevna’s ears and a red haze in her eyes. She stared with unmitigated disgust and loathing at the man being restrained by two of her servants, noting with great satisfaction his look of absolute panic. 

Anatole Kuragin opened his mouth to speak, but Marya held up her hand to stop him and glared at him, channeling her rage into a cold look so forceful that the handsome young Muscovite shrunk backwards.

“Take him inside,” she said, her voice quiet, unwavering, though inside her there was a fire raging. “And take the Countess Natasha to her room. Make sure she does not leave until I say she may. Do you hear me? Now!” 

The servants obeyed her, one of them restraining Anatole, who had stopped struggling, resigned to whatever was to happen next, one going inside to find the countess. 

Once they reached the drawing room, Marya motioned for the servant to leave and close the door. Anatole stood at the center of the room, wringing his hands. Marya circled him like a buzzard closing in.

She spoke to him, coldly, dispassionately, almost a whisper. “You promised the Countess to marry her and were about to elope, is that so?”

“I- I- I didn’t think that-”

“You answer me!” The fire that had been growing in her chest since she had first heard of her daughter’s plan to elope erupted out of her, and she was screaming, her vision blurred, the pressure in her head growing, and she yearned to strike out, to end the man who destroyed the family’s legacy. And then, through her rage, she saw Kuragin start to move, and she was ready. He moved smoothly, a snake in attitude and physicality, and she was the bird of prey, ready to strike. 

She dove in front of the door, unthinking, acting on instinct, knocking into Anatole as he reached for the knob. The tall Russian woman had never been exceptionally strong or agile, but she felt as though her entire life had been training for this one moment. She tackled him to the ground, reveling in the thunk of his head hitting the marble floor. She pinned him to the floor with one hand, looming over him. She had seen many emotion-invoking in her life, but no sight had ever made her as terribly mad and as maniacally happy as this young man, fearing for his life, on her floor, bleeding slightly from his head.

She shot him a look that could mean nothing other than “stay there, don’t move,” went over to her large cabinet, and unlocked it. She watched his pupils dilate in fear as she took out a gun, a fancy handgun that she kept loaded in case of an intruder. Striding back over to him, she repeated her question.

“Did you promise my daughter to marry her? Answer my question. I have no qualms about shooting someone I consider less than a human.”

Anatole’s voice trembled with terror, his eyes darting around the room, his tongue flicking out to wet his dry lips. “I did, yes.”

“And why did you promise her that? You had all the young, single women in Moscow at your disposal, and your sister-” she spat the name, not wanting to think about Anatole’s sister, not wanting to remember everything that had happened between them.

“I- she was young, and she was beautiful, and I truly believed that I loved her- I truly believe that I love her!” 

Marya slid her finger back and forth over the trigger, imagining herself pulling it, never having to hear that cloying, smooth voice again. She shook her head slightly.

“One more question. Do you feel any regret in what you’ve done? Do you realize that it was a despicable, awful act to commit? Are you disgusted with yourself?” She was ready for his answer, no matter what it was. She knew that it was a rhetorical question. She knew how any wise person, anyone who wasn’t an utter fool, anyone with a gun pointed at them should answer the question. 

She didn’t anticipate Anatole Kuragin. 

“In all honesty, Ms. Akrosimova, I don’t understand what I did wrong. She was young, she wasn’t married, I loved- I love her! And I don’t wish to be called despicable, or-”

Marya raised her arm methodically, slowly. She squeezed her eyes shut-

***

Natasha Rostova sat in the corner of her room, curled into a ball. All was over for her. The elopement had failed. And now Marya Dmitriyevna, the woman she used to look up to, the woman she used to think cared for, the woman she used to love, had Anatole Kuragin in her clutches.

She was too numb to cry. There was nothing left inside of her, and nothing left outside. 

Perhaps Anatole would escape. Perhaps he would manage to get out of this situation, brilliant and wonderful as he was. Perhaps they’d have another chance. She could just picture it. They’d have to plan to get around Marya, of course, as she’d now be under much heavier guard. But they’d find a way. They had found a way before, would have made it if it weren’t for Sonya’s interference-

Natasha gasped, a small, broken sound, as she heard a scuffle and a crashing sound downstairs. Part of her hoped, viciously, that Anatole had attacked her godmother.

But then she heard a cold, clear voice, and she knew that she had been wrong. 

She couldn’t make out exactly what Marya was saying, or what Anatole’s frightened reply was. But that didn’t matter. 

Slowly, she unlocked her dresser and removed a small glass bottle. She turned it over in her hands several times, before uncorking it. She stared at it.

She knew that it would take away her pain. She also knew that, if she drank it, she’d never get to be with Anatole again, never get to feel the snow on her bare arms, never be able to write another letter or see the moon or have her tongue burned by hot tea drunk by the fireplace-

She placed the bottle on her desk, still uncapped, and stared at it.

For several minutes she listened carefully, unable to hear what was happening besides some kind of very one-sided confrontation. She listened as the voices intertwined, one suppressing rage, one suppressing fear. She listened to her Anatole talk.

And then there was a bang, and the voices stopped.

Anatole never would stop talking. He always wanted attention, wanted to tell the world of his love for life, and to take part in the pure beauty of being. He would never be silent.

She took the bottle from her desk, poured it into her long-empty wineglass, looked around the room, and then, with the utter resolve only found in someone with nothing to lose and nothing to gain, poured it into her mouth.

**Author's Note:**

> this is what I want to do to the ATW


End file.
